The listless light of the pale night-sun streamed down through the dome encasing the heavens. It bathed the ground in its eerie luminescence. Stood atop a wooden platform, Havoc Gray basked in the phantom glow of the night.

Dressed in rags and bound by chains, Havoc looked up to the sky. He breathed deeply, and smiled.

Today is a good day.

By all accounts, this day was to be his last. Yet despite his present state and unfortunate prospects, the boy could not find it within himself to feel anything other than gratitude.

He was grateful to see and inhale the frosty air of the domed expanse above. He was grateful to feel the wind caress his face and run through his dirt and blood-stained hair. He was grateful to look through his throng of accusers to see his sister’s tear-filled eyes, but most of all, he was grateful that bastard was finally dead.

Chained to a cold, rusted post, locked away underground, he had not heard much concerning the victim of his crime. He had heard bits and pieces. Gossip from the lips of his otherwise diligent interrogators. He had done his part to ensure a favourable outcome, but he could not be sure he had been effective in his deed until news of his own execution arrived at dawn.

Following the announcement of his untimely demise, his day marched at an unforgiving pace. His brutal caretakers, soon to be deprived of their favourite guest, had been relentless in their exacting of the toll for his upkeep.

Day after day, week after week, and month after month, his guards bruised, broke and burned his skin for their sport. The sadistic devils would compete over which one of them would be the first to make him scream.

By the second week of his incarceration, they had abandoned all pretence of interrogation and would wordlessly savage the boy upon entry to his cell. By the end of the first month, they had put aside their competition, deciding in favour of a collaborative approach to his pain. On the third month, they had called in help. Jailers from far and wide gathered to assist in the task of breaking the iron will of the bloodied boy. On the eighth month, only his original tormentors, and the few true believers in their task, had remained to tend to their captured ward.

They were innovative in their cruelty, soaking each laceration with vinegar and salt. Yet, Havoc bore the pain without a word of complaint. Awash in the afterglow of his vengeance, there was nothing to be done which could diminish his satisfaction at having hunted down and ultimately murdered the man who would dare harm his sister.

‘… and so you stand condemned for the murder of…’ Havoc did not care. Let them say their piece and be done with it.

He tuned out the drones of his executioner and locked eyes with the last of his bloodline. Tears ran freely down his sister’s face and soundlessly fell onto the stone-paved ground.

If Havoc had two regrets, it would be that he would no longer be there to protect his sister. Sentimentality aside, Hurricane would be fine. For the first few years of their exile to Stone Garden, it was she, as his elder, who had taken charge of their survival. From the day they had lost everything, all they had was each other. Though suppressed beneath the weight of his deep inhalation, he could appreciate the soul-wrenching melancholy at leaving his sister to face the world alone, but in his heart, there was room enough for only one regret…

His nails tunnelled into his palm and his steady breath faltered.

‘No… Not yet…’

‘The condemned will remain silent.’ Havoc’s executioner replied as if automatically before continuing his pronunciations. Havoc turned his head to inspect the man who would take his life. Dressed in a knee-length, ivory frock coat, the man stood no shorter than six-feet in height. Beneath his coat, he wore a simple, black, buttoned shirt, and beneath the shirt, he wore matching black trousers. Despite a lean physique, strength radiated from the man’s body. Tightly stitched muscles outlined his form, but the power Havoc’s reaper exuded was of a stranger kind.

As Havoc studied the man, recognition dawned. This was an inheritor. A rare being chosen by the very essence of the dungeon-world. These inheritors were granted powers most couldn't even fathom. There was no possibility of escape, and yet…

‘I’m not ready!’ At Havoc’s words, the tail end of the executioner’s spotless, snow-white coat billowed in the air as the man turned to face the impudent child. As if flattened on the ground, weighed down by stones, pressure barred down on Havoc, rattling his fractured bones and forcing him to his knees.

‘The condemned will remain silent!’ Although the man’s voice remained dispassionate, each syllable which fell from his lips carried the weight of the heavens. They crashed down on Havoc, deepening his supplication.

Though shackled, bloodied and fallen, he strained to lift his head and meet the gaze of the inheritor. Blood streamed from his nose, ears and eyes, streaking down his face to further dye his rags in its familiar crimson stain.

‘I… I he-ar the...call!’ Those were the final words to escape Havoc’s mouth before all light fled from the world, plunging him into the dark.

***

‘The boy is a murderer, a thief and a liar! He is no more an inheritor than a toad is a king! With respect, my lord, he is trying to deceive you. His words were nothing more than the desperate lies of fiend, justly condemned.’

Light filtered through the narrow openings of Havoc's flickering eyelids. It was not the harrowing amber glow of candlelight, nor the ethereal luminescence of the night. Instead, it was a brilliant radiance. The pure illumination of the day-sun. He had not expected to see such a light again.

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Razored anguish cut though his body as the temporarily reprieved sat up. The linen bandages wrapped beneath his shirt scraped his tender flesh as he shifted himself upon the headboard. Settled in place, the sharp pain began to subside. Hardly could it be called ideal, his state; but new clothes and fresh bandages were not a privilege he had reasonably foreseen. Even the reek of blood, grime, and bodily excretions which had clung like his shadow was blissfully absent. His body was still pained, raw to the touch, but he could not feel the wet stick of blood, nor the threads of medical intervention. He would need to remove his wrappings to be certain, but he believed his treatment to be of a more wonderful kind.

Who could be so wasteful on a street rat like me? He thought.

‘What could they want in return?’ He said, unable to fully blunt the spikes of apprehension spreading from his stomach to penetrate his heart.

Havoc had always believed when his time came he would accept it with dignity, his head held high even as the blade fell.

He believed wrong.

It was not the fear of death which had burned when him facing the end, it was the bitterness of defeat. Death was final. It meant whatever he could have been would be cut off. Death would solidify his station. He would have lived and died as nothing. He would have confirmed every venomous word ejected from the forked tongues of the ones he could never accept as his betters.

He could never accept that.

Not quietly.

Not without a fight.

‘So you’re awake.’ The door creaked open, granting Havoc’s executioner entry to his bedchamber. Following behind the imposing man, a man of much lesser stature wobbled into the room. The short man was dressed finely; rich colours adorned his attire. Nevertheless, Havoc could see where the power lay between his new interrogators. Without question, his executioner's companion was an affluent man. To grow fat in the dungeon was a strictly reserved privilege. Despite his wealth, it was not he who has taken the lead in entering or speaking.

Havoc strained to lift himself from the bed, but his efforts were nullified by the raised palm of his executioner.

‘Rest.’ The man commanded. ‘Take the opportunity while you have it.’

‘Where am I?’

‘Somewhere safe, for the time being.’ The man replied. ‘As for introductions, the name is Edgar Grace, but most just call me Graceless. I prefer it, so feel free to make that selection.’

‘And your friend?’ Havoc shifted his head in the direction of the portly man, receiving a grimace in exchange.

‘You will refer to me as Lord-Mayor. No other title will be necessary.’

‘I can’t imagine you don’t know why you’re here.’ Graceless said, re-capturing Havoc’s focus.

The boy paused before meeting the silent accusation. ‘Wouldn’t you know why I'm here? I did kill a man, after all.’ With clenched fists, Havoc met Graceless' gaze. ‘But perhaps my life has value to you now. More than his ever did.’

‘How dare you!’ The Lord-mayor’s saliva sprayed the room, accompanying the man’s exclamation. 'Do you know where you are or to whom you speak!’

‘I’m somewhere safe talking to a man without grace and another with no name.’ He had not noticed it at first, or perhaps in his state it was an irrelevant detail, but as the Lord-mayor’s hand jerked to his side, Havoc finally took note of the sword buckled to the man’s bulging waist.

The blade could not clear the leather of its sheath before Graceless’ rugged hand tapped the sword back in place.

‘As the boy so tactfully reminded us, I guaranteed his safety in this place. I’ve been called many names, but “liar” is not one of them.’

The well-fed man’s face tinted red, and all blood drained from the hand gripping his sword. Although his efforts were clear, the Lord-mayor could not lift the blade from the oppressive weight of Graceless’ palm. With a puff, the rotund gentleman relinquished his grip before stabbing a finger toward Havoc.

‘Your little game might have bought you some time, but you’re a liar, boy! I see your type every day. Clinging to life like a cockroach. You’re not special or important. You are exactly what your life has amounted to, nothing! Your head might have escaped the pike, but there are worse things in this world than death, and by your lying tongue, you’ll come to learn that first hand.’ Without another word, the Lord-mayor turned and left the room, slamming the door upon his exit.

Graceless’ eyes settled on Havoc. For a moment there was silence, but that moment was banished by the low chuckles emanating from the executioner’s throat.

‘You have quite the mouth on you.’ Graceless began as he took the seat beside Havoc’s bed. ‘Word of advice, be very careful in the enemies you make.’ Groaning, Havoc straightened his back, pushing down the chills running the length of his spine. ‘You seem to favour directness, so I’ll be direct. Old-man Bart is right, you didn’t hear the call.’

The chills down his spine spread the course of Havoc’s body, freezing his blood. Careful to suppress all reaction, he maintained Graceless’ gaze.

‘If you were sure of that, I would be dead.’ Chuckling once more, Graceless leaned back in his chair.

‘Relax. You have nothing to fear from me. Whether you live or die isn’t my concern. I’m just passing through. That being said, it’s rare for inheritors to hear the call. If by some chance you’re one of us, I have no reason to deny you the chance to prove it.’

‘So you’re a benevolent stranger?’

‘I’m an apathetic stranger. You wanted to live and I have no reason to kill you.’

Havoc scanned his eyes across Graceless’ face searching for signs of deception. With a snort, Havoc crossed his legs, slouched before resting his face between his index finger and thumb.

‘I don’t suppose that means I can leave?’

‘I don’t suppose it does. You didn’t hear the call, but your claim can’t be ignored.’

Without exception, every inheritor to have been called by the dungeon had made a name for themselves, for better and worse.

‘It wouldn’t do to release every criminal claiming the call.’

‘I would never ask for such a thing, only that you release me.’ Graceless’ Billowing laughter met Havoc’s words as the man stood to his feet and approached the door.

‘I think I could grow fond of you, boy. I hope you survive your trial.’ Without looking back, Graceless left the bedchamber, the clang of metal locking into place followed his departure.

Sliding back into bed, Havoc closed his eyes and massaged his temples, relieving the edges of the hollow ache of his recent tribulations.

He was alive. For now, that was sufficient. As for the trial to come, he would face it as he had faced everything else in life.

With everything he had.